A Couple Hundred Miles From Somewhere
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Caitlin] Returning home for spring break, Barry and Caitlin quickly sense that home isn't where they need to be to figure out their problems. The two leave on an impromptu road trip together, hoping to find distraction with each other, and at the end of the road, perhaps, find themselves.


**author's notes:** written for simplysnowbarry's **Snowbarry Week 2018** , day 4: free day. this might be easier to read on AO3 as a lot of my formatting disappeared and this site doesn't allow everything i want anymore.

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 **A COUPLE HUNDRED MILES FROM SOMEWHERE**

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one. _somebody's hands who felt like mine_

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Summer pricked at the back of Barry's neck even as the sun sunk below the horizon. Crickets chirped in the backyard, patches of grass the sprinklers missed crunching like potato chips beneath his feet.

He leaves the house behind him, the heat and his parents' eyes too oppressive in a place once refuge only, and he can't figure out when that changed. Leaving home to head to college had been dreadful, even more so these past few months spent realizing a future where he becomes a doctor like his dad was not at all one he wanted. His time volunteering at the free clinic off-campus made it clear once and for all that kind of education would be wasted on him the longer he kept at it. Sure, he could easily switch to any other graduate degree in his field of preference—

But how to tell his parents?

How does he tell Henry Allen, who's exalted the hallowed halls of Ohio State for more years than he's been alive, that he hasn't set his eye on the same future he hoped for? How does he tell Nora Allen, who made him lab coats for Halloween through three growth spurts, that her enthusiasm was hers alone?

How can he avoid being anything but a disappointment?

Crossing the lawn he plunks down in an old creaky chair that should've been trashed a long time ago, so it's deep enough in the garden not to be seen from the house. He wishes he could disappear, turn invisible so he might avoid his parents' scrutinizing looks and their questions, and their inevitable judgment when he tells them why he came home.

He can't keep working toward a future that's wrong for him, he knows that, but what then does that future look like? For as long as he can remember he's lived up to his parents' expectations of him; he did well in school, stuck to his curfews, didn't drink and rarely frequented any after-school parties, and that'd paid off. He got the scholarship of his adopted dreams and—

That was that.

It's been so easy to live up to other people's expectations of him he never stood still long enough to think about his own. What does he want? What makes him happy? Each time he tries to figure that out he hits a wall.

How does a nineteen-year old know that?

How does anyone?

A noose tightens around his neck; his throat closes and tears spill into his peripheral vision, a toxic shock effect that'd taken him by surprise a few times before he traced its origins. His body started reacting to his parents' expectations like a foreign object invading it, his white cell count rising, a cold sweat tainting his skin when he lay awake in bed at night. It can't go on like this, but he can't bring himself to talk to his parents either, so he's stuck, still, wandering, in an increasingly smaller space.

How can he stay here for another two weeks feeling like this?

A whimper crawls up his throat, barely escaped before a similar sound comes from behind the wooden fence separating the garden from the Snows' next door, a short subtle sniffle unnoticeable from the house.

Someone else crying in the backyard.

Like that, the floodgates close and his focus shifts elsewhere; that can't be Mrs. Snow, can it? Why would she be out in the garden crying, even in this weather? She lives on her own last he checked; she has no one to hide from.

That's when he remembers why he'd fled the house.

"Caitlin?"

Did she come home for spring break too? He hadn't seen her around the past few days, though in all honesty he hadn't been paying much attention.

"Is that you?"

Three seconds of silence pass, and another sniffle sounds.

"B-Barry?"

His shoulders relax; the noose loosens. Why is Caitlin crying?

"Are you okay?"

Another moment of silence asserts how little they truly know each other. He's a stranger to Caitlin as surely as she is to him, even though they've been neighbors since they were five years old.

"Not really," Caitlin says, and it draws out his own sadness like leeches attaching to his skin. Could she be home for the same reason he is?

For the most part their lives ran parallel; they grew up in the suburbs, attended good –but different– schools, were both exemplary students, and were set to go to prestigious colleges, a fact their moms had happily spread through the neighborhood. Now he can't help but think about how he's not really okay either, how Caitlin's home for spring break and sought refuge in the garden, and it's probable that, like him, she had few friends who returned home to serve as a welcome distraction.

"You?" follows after countless of moments.

"I'm– not great," he huffs indignantly, picking at a loose thread along the seams of his jeans, "I came here to make sense of everything, but—"

"—your parents don't understand?" Caitlin supplies, her life travelling the same equidistant line, considering the scary thought that home isn't what it used to be since they left for college. Life's no longer as simple as winning spelling bees or science fairs. How did that happen? When had that happened?

"Your mom too, huh?"

Caitlin hums softly.

He imagines her sitting in the garden, leant up against the wooden fence, her head leaned back, lips pursed in quiet contemplation, her soft friendly smile, and he can't for the life of him say why they never ended up becoming friends. What stopped them?

Last time he saw Caitlin she'd stood packing up her tiny blue car to leave for college, his own journey scheduled a few days later. They'd shared some small talk, wished each other luck, and parted ways.

Now both of them were back here.

"I don't know," he sighs. "Home was meant to make things easier for a while, and now all I can think about is running away."

Early evening sets with the sun dropping steadily lower along the horizon, draping the garden in darkness, and a soft breeze lightens the weight of the heat by half a degree—Barry breathes in gratefully, but has few hopes of catching a better night's sleep.

"Where would you go?"

He smiles. His mom often spoke of London and Paris and Amsterdam, where she travelled after college, but there's only one place on earth he can think of escaping to, a place from his childhood that held more happy memories than he could count. All of them unique, encased in a childlike wonder he's scarcely recaptured since.

"There's this lake my dad used to take me camping. Nothing but water and trees as far as you could see. Big beach. Hiking trails. And there was this smell, you know, of fresh dirt and wet leaves, and— and rain."

He can't remember why they stopped going.

"It's quiet," he adds as an afterthought, even though the forest often became an orchestra of its own—the wind through the trees and the water in the creek, the birdsong. Out there lived a different sort of quiet.

"Sounds nice."

"Yeah? You want to come?"

When Caitlin laughs at that, a small subtle giggle, he soaks it up like it's a personal achievement, like he helped chase off some of her demons as well as his own by merely talking to her. She gets why he's here, and he gets why she is, even if neither of them know the details of the other's fears.

"Sure," comes Caitlin's soft reply.

Silence falls again, both of them lost in thought.

It'd be a magical thing, running away with a girl he barely knows, heading for the hills of his youth to relive old wonders, leaving all this behind to figure out what he wants for himself before facing his parents' disappointment.

They'd return as different people, reborn, revitalized. Reinvented.

All this; home and school and life, would make sense again.

"Caitlin?" calls Mrs. Snow from the house, "What are you doing out here?"

Caitlin heaves a small sigh.

Back into the lion's den.

"Goodnight, Barry."

"Night, Caitlin."

He listens for the crack in Caitlin's knees as she stands and her footsteps in the grass, and he thinks, of all the college kids in the entire world, what are the chances that the girl going through the same thing he is lives next door?

The odds must be astronomical.

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That night he barely sleeps a wink, early spring too sticky, his dreams defying description—brown eyes haunt him while he falls through a cluster of stars far outside the known universe, before he wakes up in a sweaty heap of sheets.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to seek out Caitlin's company for the duration of spring break. If she understands what he's going through maybe they can talk to each other without hitting any pressure points, and it'd be really nice to have someone to talk to who isn't his mom or dad.

Was that a completely insane idea?

"Why don't you go pick up the groceries today?" his mom suggests over breakfast, the third in a line of suggestions she's made since he returned home to get him out of the house. She reasoned he couldn't remain stuck inside the remainder of spring break, or sit around doing nothing, unaware his paralysis encompassed intense soul-searching regarding his future and more than the occasional panic attack, because he'd somehow managed to skillfully hide that.

So he obliges, because he lacks the energy to say no to his mom, and he wouldn't want to start a discussion over something as simple as a drive to the grocery store; he could resume his panicking once he returned to the mutable confines of his childhood home.

But he's no sooner opened the front door or who should he find on his doorstep—but the girl next door. Big brown eyes. Pink lips. Cheeks tinged red.

"What are you—?" he asks, eyes ticking down Caitlin's blue checkered shirt tucked into tiny jeans shorts, down to her comfy white sneakers. What's she doing here?

Did she have the same idea he did? Does she want to hang out?

"Let's go"—Caitlin smiles furtively, and bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, her eyes near twinkling—"to the lake."

The lake—?

His eyes narrow. "I wasn't—"

Surely Caitlin knew he wasn't serious about running away; what he said had been a fantasy, a coming-of-age teen fallacy that few people actually undertook. What use would it be, anyway? A large body of water won't bring him any answers.

Yet, the thought that he's not alone, that Caitlin would go with him, that they could run together and not look back, at least for a little while—why not?

"It's a two-day trip either way."

Sheepishly, Caitlin recovers her iPod from her back pocket, and shrugs—"I made a playlist for the road,"—and somewhere in between Caitlin's hopeful smile and his childhood memory of a lake that danced with sunlight, he thinks, what's stopping them now? They're both more than capable of making their own decisions; they're smart, if not a little lost at the moment. Maybe this is what they needed to regain some balance.

A smile curls around his mouth. "Give me twenty minutes."

With that, he runs upstairs and dives into his closet, grabs his grandpa's camera and packs enough clothes to last a few days, toiletries and some expired sunscreen, his phone and wallet and whatever money he finds, his body humming with excitement and terror at the same time. He's never done anything like this before, not this sudden and spontaneous and definitely not with a complete stranger.

But if not Caitlin, then who? Who else would take him away? Who else would follow?

"Barry!"

He startles at the sharp sound of his mom's voice, and he looks up to find her catching him in the act of stealing some snacks for the road. He hadn't even noticed she was there.

"I asked you where you were going."

His mom's eyes fill his veins with pins and needles, like they've been doing for three days straight, and he can't take it anymore—he can't live with her constant supervision, with her judgment over sitting around at home when home should be exactly where he gets to do that. All of a sudden, it's the house that makes it harder for him to breathe, and he can't stay here for another minute.

"I'm driving up to the lake."

A car honks outside. His twenty minutes are up.

"With Caitlin."

"From next door?"

Despairing, Barry throws up his hands. Should he go for that grocery run, then? Was he not allowed to go? Will his parents keep him trapped here alongside his panic and nostalgia, and the daunting realization that home no longer provided any answers?

"Okay."

Okay?

"Be safe," his mom breathes, and draws a hand along his shoulder. "We'll talk when you get back?"

His heart nosedives into his stomach. She's letting him go.

Barry nods, "Yeah," and kisses his mom's cheek, before making his way out of the house blindly. His heart beats dully in his chest. He's really doing this; he's leaving on an impromptu road trip with his next-door neighbor with no idea where it'll lead or if it'll solve anything.

Still, as soon as he's outside he tosses his bag in the trunk of Caitlin's car and gets in next to her; overwhelmed, ecstatic. Terrified.

What are they doing?

"You realize this is crazy, right?" he says, staring ahead, moving back the seat to accommodate his legs before he buckles his seatbelt. He's not saying they shouldn't do this; nothing's changed since last night and he can't have that talk with his parents any time soon, so he and Caitlin are on the same page about this. Why not get away for a while?

"You'd rather sit at home or go back to school?"

His tongue clicks off the roof of his mouth. Right. There is of course the matter of him suffocating each time he so much as thinks about school.

"What do you say, Barry Allen?" Caitlin's voice turns teasing, and it curls around the ventricles of his heart like Baby's Breath—it's both genteel and suffocating in and of itself, the way Caitlin manages to play his heart's fears and desires without first learning how to. "Do you want to run away with me?"

His eyes find hers and he sees her for the first time ever; as a girl, not too different from him but not quite so fearful, not afraid to speak her mind, yet lost all the same. Wandering. Stuck. Still.

Why not broaden their horizons for a while?

He nods. "Yes, I do."

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two. _drive until you lose the road_

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"Should we have rules?"

Caitlin browses through a stand of sunglasses at the gas station, her index finger ticking down the frames one by one. Every few seconds or so she tries on a pair, checking herself in the small mirror atop the display. It's the most she's said to him since they left, both of them too high on adrenaline to start any halfway decent conversation. What are they really doing? What's the plan here?

He blinks up from the magazine he'd been leafing through. "Rules?"

Glancing at him briefly Caitlin bites at her lower lip before donning cat eye sunglasses. "We don't really know each other."

For a half second he thinks that's the whole entire point of this; he couldn't do this with a close friend or his parents, because they'd read the telltale signs of the dark clouds amassing over his head, the storm knit between his shoulders, the downpour around the corners of his mouth, and they'd sit him down for interrogation once his panic starts. Why is he doing this? Why does he have to get away? What answers will he find on the road that he can't find at home, where things are meant to make sense?

Something tells him Caitlin won't burden him with those same kinds of questions.

But they don't know each other, and even if neither of them needs to hear what the other's struggling with he's not in the habit of packing up his things and hitting the road with the first person to make the suggestion.

"Like"—his eyebrows rise—"stay out of each other's personal space?"

It stands to reason he remain respectful toward Caitlin, that he gives this new friendship the time and space it rightfully deserves and not force anything on her. She's in this with him, after all, and he's equally responsible for sending them down this path.

Caitlin smiles and puts on novelty glasses next, covered in The Stars and Stripes. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'don't assume Caitlin can't read a map'."

"Rule number one"—he chuckles—"no gender prejudice."

"No talking about what brought us both here," Caitlin fires rule nr°2 at him, stealing another quick glance at him under her brow, as if the mere notion of it might offend him.

But here too they're on the same page.

"Not a problem."

"No law breaking?"

Barry's eyes narrow, head tilting in question. What scenario does Caitlin have in mind that would lead to either of them breaking the law?

"You're right"—Caitlin draws in a quick breath—"let's not make that a rule."

He can't help the laugh that escapes him, adding, "We each pay for half of the gas."

Caitlin nods, "Agreed," and finally decides on a pair of oversized sunglasses with blue frames—he's assuming she's not about to suggest they break the law and make a run for it, stealing the gas and supplies they came for. Imagine the scandal their families would have to endure, the trials and testimonies, the jail time. He can't do prison, he doesn't have the constitution for that kind of mindless isolation.

In lieu of starting their new life of crime, and while his imagination gets the better of him, Caitlin starts rifling through the next row of sunglasses.

"Am—" he starts, cut off abruptly when Caitlin reaches up and deftly fits a pair of red wayfarers to his nose, "—I allowed to drive the car?"

"As long as you move the seat back to its proper position."

He nods, "Of course", soon checking himself in the small mirror too.

"Anything else?"

Pushing the red spectacles higher up the bridge of his nose he runs through their short list of rules.

"Be open to trying new things?" he asks, finding the most uncontainable sense of wonder budding at the thought of what lies ahead; everything they might see, everyone they might meet, and all the things they could (re)discover along the way.

At the sound of his suggestion, however, Caitlin shrinks a little smaller.

What could she be afraid of? She's the one who showed up on his doorstep and made the crazy suggestion to go to the lake, to try this new thing and be crazy, to turn their backs on home and parents and be young adults who might not currently be in their right minds. What's the point of all this if not to get swept up by the novelty of it all?

"Trying new things," Caitlin reiterates, and bites the inside of her cheek, as if coming to terms with the idea that she might have to step further out of her comfort zone comes harder to her than it does him. Not for the first time he catches himself thinking he couldn't do this with anyone but Caitlin, not anyone else more grounded or balanced or already reached their destination. It has to be Caitlin, now, tomorrow, and every day after that.

Her answer comes in the shape of a shrug. Not a 'yes' but not a 'no' either, and he'll take it. This is new to them both, unbelievably spontaneous and possibly foolish, but they're in it together.

.

Soon their real journey starts, and the familiar landscape of Central City makes way for wide-open farmland stretching as far as the eye can see; bright greens and matted browns replace the grey and gleam of the city, and the road stretches into the possibility of something long-lasting and solid, something he can't yet name but rises like warm goosebumps over the surface of his skin.

Caitlin drives, and he navigates using the GPS on his phone in conjunction with the old-school paper map Caitlin made him buy—better safe than sorry, and whatnot.

Both windows rolled down to spare the small car's air-conditioning from having to work overtime, the wind whistles and wheezes, catching his hair at odd angles.

And it's quiet.

Not in an absent-any-sound kind of way, but for the first time in a long time his thoughts aren't racing, his heart isn't desperately trying to stick to a rhythm about to make him hyperventilate, and he can breathe easy. It's good for him to be away from things, from school and from home and from people who placed expectations on him he couldn't fulfill if he tried. Maybe he'll find happiness at the end of this road, or maybe he won't, but at least he'll have tried upsetting the status quo.

A loud bang jolts the car.

Caitlin visibly startles, hushing, "What was that?" before bringing the car to a stop by the side of the road, not far from a large intersection. "Did I hit something?"

Unbuckling his seatbelt he gets out of the car, inspecting the patch of road behind them for debris. It seems unlikely they hit anything, considering the last car they past was well over an hour ago, but maybe something skipped across the road and hit the undercarriage.

There's no evidence of that either, though.

He looks back to the car, reaching no higher than his shoulders, and quickly finds the cause of their problem.

"You blew a tire."

"What? No!" Caitlin squeals, and scrambles out of the car one uncoordinated limb after the other. She rounds the car and takes one look at the deflated tire, panic setting in around her eyes. "What are we going to do? We can't turn back now. We might as well just go home!"

"Well—"

He frowns, questioning Caitlin's frantic train of reasoning. Why would they turn back for a flat tire? Why would they turn back at all? They're about as far from Central City as they're near Star City and have no real reason to stop and turn around. Was Caitlin looking for an excuse too?

"Well, what?!"

His eyebrows rise. "Do you have a spare tire?"

"I—" Caitlin takes a deep grounding breath, "yes."

His head spins. He had no idea Caitlin would be this quick to panic—he's only ever seen her calm and poised, composed in ways he couldn't begin to be. This side of her is kind of intimidating, not to mention surprising; he thought he was the only one so intent on worst-case scenarios. As far as disasters go, a flat tire isn't much to worry about.

"And a car jack?"

"Under the driver's seat." Caitlin turns, and retrieves the kit herself, complete with a lug wrench, before turning on the hazard lights, even though there isn't a car in sight and they could easily be seen from a mile away.

"You know how to do this?" she asks, handing him the small kit.

"You don't?" he quips, which earns him a playful slap to the shoulder for breaking one of their recently formulated rules. He doesn't mean to make light of the situation, but it does ease some of the tension.

With his help Caitlin retrieves the spare tire from underneath the car, and makes sure to lock the wheel diagonally opposite for safety reasons, so he reckons Caitlin knows perfectly well how to change a tire, she's just never done so before.

"We're not getting off to the best start, are we?" Caitlin says, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans back against the car, watching closely as he loosens the lug nuts of the tire one by one.

He chuckles. "Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something."

"That running away from our problems is a bad idea?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Pulling free the blown tire, he rolls it out of reach, quickly replacing it with the spare one and screwing the lug nuts back into place. He chances a glance up at Caitlin, his new sunglasses protecting his eyes from the sun, and finds her staring off into the distance, certain defeat showing in her manner. He'd pay good money to know what's going through her mind, decipher some of her moods, because honestly he never gave her inner workings much thought until some of them turned out to be duplicates of his own.

"You're not buying it, huh?"

If he were in her shoes, which arguably he is, he wouldn't put much stock in those kinds of ideas either; the universe as a vengeful thing, a thing aware of each of their actions?

"I– am not." Caitlin stresses, unable to stifle an open mouthed smile, followed by the sweet hint of her eyes rolling. "The universe doesn't"—She throws up her hands—"send people messages, and it's not going to stop us from seeing this lake you told me about."

"You're right." He smirks. "Screw the universe."

At that, Caitlin laughs again, and he tightens the last of the lug nuts to the best of his ability; they should probably see a mechanic to make sure the tire holds, but this should get them going again.

He cleans his hands using some bottled water, and helps Caitlin secure the busted tire underneath the car, before taking out his phone again, ready to navigate them further down the road. Unfortunately his phone lost its signal while they were parked, and, looking at the highway route markers on the intersection ahead, there's no mention of Star City. Weren't they headed that way?

"We're lost, aren't we?" Caitlin asks, and as he catches her eyes over the roof of the car it's hard to ignore the amused little smile that pulls around her lips.

"No," he huffs. "We're– taking the scenic route."

Caitlin's smile widens. "We're lost, aren't we?"

He sighs.

Yes. Okay. He'll admit that maybe, through some fault of his, they took a wrong turn somewhere, landing them in the middle of nowhere with little idea of where to go next.

Barry rubs the back of his neck.

Still far too amused to drop the smile curled around her mouth, Caitlin dives into the car and retrieves the road map, laying it out on the hood of the car to get a better overview. Her fingers ghost over the paper, tracing the color-coded lines of the road that lay behind them, and he reckons there's a certain poetry to all this, to the thought of being lost, all in the pursuit of finding themselves.

"We missed a turn," Caitlin concludes, her index finger landing on the turn in question.

"We did?" He shoots forward. "Are you sure?"

Caitlin's mouth quirks to one side, an unimpressed eyebrow rising with it.

Right.

Rule nr°1.

"I sense you're particular about this rule." He nods, making a blind grab for the map. "And– I respect that. But in my defense I was ten the last time my dad took me camping."

Without looking away, Caitlin snatches the map away from him, and daintily presents him with the car keys. "Why don't I navigate for a while?"

Barry's jaw drops in feigned insult. "You don't trust me."

God, this is fun, this rapport they're building, this relentless back-and-forth between his sarcasm and Caitlin's quick wit, and he hopes that doesn't end any time soon.

Caitlin shakes her head, laughing. "Not with this, I don't."

.

(Neither of them says it, not even that night lying awake in the dark of the motel room; how they may have made a mistake, how they shouldn't be here trying to stay ahead of their problems when they'll still be there once they return home—running away can't solve questions so impossibly big.

What makes him happy?

What does he want to do with his life?

Maybe it's his imagination; maybe Caitlin isn't hoping for excuses the same way the little voice in his head begs for a way out, but maybe it isn't his imagination at all; maybe Caitlin's simply the kind of person who sticks something out once she's committed to it, like he's not a quitter—at least, not in every aspect of his life.

Maybe they're both thinking it. It's not too late to turn around.

"Do you think we made a mistake?" Caitlin might ask. "Leaving?"

"Would you rather be home right now?" he'd fire back, seeking out her silhouette in the dark, wishing, hoping, praying that all that will follow is a "No," in the temperate quiet of the room.

But neither of them asks.

So neither of them knows for sure if they are where they need to be.)

.

Day two of their journey steers them away from Star City and further down south, where the open road gives way to the occasional smaller lakes and reservoirs, wide rivers cascading with thousands of metric tons of water flowing relentlessly onward. With Caitlin's expert guidance they don't make another wrong turn, which she doesn't fail to rub in at timed intervals along the way.

Both of them are silent, for the most part, save for the occasional command Caitlin makes. Most of yesterday hasn't yet been digested and neither of them seems particularly keen on talking about it; they've set the rules, they've met some misfortune, but at least they haven't voiced any doubts.

None of it feels right, though; it's one thing to be in this for their own separate reasons, but today in the car it's like they're undertaking separate journeys too, stuck in their own heads, running along the same parallel lines their lives have always been set on—never touching. It shouldn't be like this. Not this kind of quiet.

"Penny for your thoughts," he dares ask, the noose around his neck tightening—yesterday had been a significantly better day.

Caitlin smiles softly, untangling her fingers from the ends of her hair, which had been fiddled with and twirled, pulled and stroked, her hands busybodies to keep Caitlin from squirming in her seat.

"How about we call it a day," she says, with the same furtive look in her eyes that'd enchanted him back home, "and go buy some beer?"

"Beer?" His eyes skip back and forth between the road and Caitlin. "Is that what you meant by law breaking?"

"I have a fake ID."

"So do I, I just—"

"What?" Caitlin snaps, making his heart stutter in his chest—beneath all that poise and calm there's a sharpness and exactitude to her manner that makes him nervous.

"Nothing," he mutters, and focuses on the road again. He was thinking it might be a bit early to already stop, especially on their first day, but beer might not be such an awful idea if it'll loose Caitlin up. That's twice in as many days that Caitlin's lost her cool and he can't fathom what he did to deserve it. If she continues to carry around that chip on her shoulder, presumably her mother's or whatever else she's running from, this trip will only get worse.

Before hitting up any stores he finds them a motel to stay for the night, and drives around the area to find a place dodgy enough that looks like it might sell them beer or wine. Oddly, it doesn't take him long.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," he says as he parks the car, dragging the seat forward as per their agreement. It's only their second day on the road; it'd be a shame to let the mood sour because he held on to his pride too strongly or he kept making ill-founded assumptions about her that have proven to be false. She's not the quiet girl with a constant calm composure, and evidently doesn't follow every rule if she has a fake ID—so he should stop thinking she fits any stone cold stereotype.

"No"—Caitlin exhales, with none of the previous heat behind it—"I shouldn't take my frustration out on you."

"You know, you can– talk to me."

"That would mean breaking one of the rules."

So it is home then, nipping at her heels despite the distance they've travelled.

"I know, but—"

Home still haunts him all the same, as does the big talk he needs to have with his parents about his future, as do the dozens of questions he has about what the future might look like if he doesn't become a doctor.

It's enough to make anyone snap.

"I'm here, if you need to."

"Thanks, Barry."

Convinced that he won't be shouted at again any time soon, he follows behind Caitlin inside the small grocery store. For dinner they both decide on instant noodles, so they can eat in front of the television back at the motel, and grab a six-pack of bottled beer along with an assortment of snacks that should tie them over for another day.

At the register Caitlin slides her fake ID over the counter, which the attendant checks out with a wary eye, looking between the ID and Caitlin a few times, before sighing, "This says you're twenty-five."

"I am"—Caitlin blinks, lips pursing—"twenty-five."

"What year were you born?"

His heart jumps. Had he managed to find the one place where they actually scrutinized IDs?

"Nineteen—" Caitlin tries to do the math fast, but ends up conjuring the sweetest smile when her brain fails to supply the answer fast enough—she pushes her hair back behind her ear, attempting flirtation as her next tactic. "Does it really matter?"

The attendant rolls his eyes, and drags the pack of brown bottles out of reach. "Sorry, sweetheart. Not on your team."

"But—" Caitlin objects, eyeing the beers as she nervously bites at her lip, and the attendant pauses, like he's still willing to give her the beer should she come up with a valid excuse. Sadly, Caitlin falters—her lips part but no words follow and the panic in her eyes makes him want to wrap her up in his arms and shut her away from the big bad world.

Caitlin runs, turns on her heels and sprints out of the store, leaving both him and the attendant staring after her, dumbfounded. He never thought Caitlin would give up that easily, especially considering how much lip she's been giving him. She didn't seem the type to back away from a challenge—maybe she didn't have the energy to spare after being tried and tested these recent days.

"Caitlin—Wait!" he calls, kicked into high gear, and makes a mad grab for all the food, dropping some cash on the counter, hushing, "Keep the change," as he chases behind Caitlin.

He finds her stuck somewhere between the store and the car, kicking at the dirt so hard it comes flying backwards against her legs.

"Why is this so hard?!" she screams up at the sky, out to the dark of the night, to no one in particular. Who knows, maybe she's screaming at the universe itself. What happened in there? What's making her freak out in the middle of nowhere when there were plenty of opportunities to panic before now?

"Cait?"

"Why can't I ever just let go?!"

"It's not that big a deal."

"But it is, Barry!" Caitlin turns, her eyes those of someone younger, someone less put together than the girl sat by his side in the car, or anywhere near the girl who'd asked him to run away with her. Had she been desperately trying to keep it together all that time? Was that moment he caught her crying in the garden one of many, like his breathless escapes weren't singular occasions either?

"For six months I've had to hear people call me cold and uptight, even though I thought that was only my mom," Caitlin rants. "Turns out I'm exactly like her!"

"That's not true."

"What's worse is I don't know who I am!" Caitlin throws up her hands. "Caitlin Snow? Who is that? Am I my mother's daughter? Am I the girl who goes on road trips with boys she hardly knows?"

Caitlin sighs, and growls, her body thrumming with the same despair he felt when his mom caught him in the kitchen stealing snacks—he's left thinking about Mrs. Snow and whether she keeps as close an eye on Caitlin as his mom does on him, if her identity crisis runs parallel with his need to find something that makes him happy, or if it's something of her own making. Guarded or not, why would Caitlin think herself cold? Why would she question who she is?

"I wanted that beer, Barry." Caitlin turns, gesticulating so wildly it's like she's trying to convince someone else altogether—her mom, maybe? She could easily be mistaken for someone younger, all of a sudden, barely past high school with its pitfalls and social anxiety. "I'd like to get drunk at least once on this trip, because it'd be the most irresponsible thing I've ever done."

She puffs out a hot breath, her hands balling into fists. "If that's not pathetic—"

It'd be easy to laugh or make fun of her, but he's felt that same frustration for such a long time it's hard not to empathize, sensed his limbs tremble with an anger so specific not many would understand.

It's not pathetic.

If it's pathetic than he's pathetic too, and that's never been what this is about; not when he suggested it in the garden, and definitely not right now—they're both just looking for answers to big terrifying questions without having a clue where to start looking for them.

That's not pathetic.

"Caitlin—"

Thunder barrages like a round shot overhead.

Caitlin yelps a scream and jumps back a step, and he shoots forward for the hell of it, because there isn't exactly anything to protect her from.

Not until the sky opens like a sea above them, and Caitlin's shoulders draw higher under the sudden onslaught of rain, seeping through her clothes in no time, her hair flattening. He shivers, paralyzed for a few brief moments while lightning cuts an illogical pattern through the dark.

"Oh my God," he breathes, and grabs Caitlin's hand without thinking, pulling her toward the car—her hand's small in his, but it clutches hard.

Caitlin gets in behind the wheel and he folds into the passenger seat, back safe inside the confines of the blue car, somehow grown smaller over the span of the last few minutes.

Rain clatters like marbles against the windshield, a drum solo set to the first disastrous leg of their trip. In the list of things that had thus far gone wrong a torrential downpour did seem like a perfect bookend to the past two days; perhaps it was some kind of punishment for not heeding the universe's calls yesterday, for not turning around and heading back home, or for ever thinking the cosmos was something they could ignore through sheer force of will.

Though, like Caitlin, he doesn't truly hold to that.

Back home he would've hid in his room in a house shrinking around him. He'd have sobbed and sulked and snagged a finger inside the imaginary noose around his neck hoping for a little relief. He'd be far worse off there than he is sitting here, wet, inside a car that might be growing smaller, but for far different reasons.

He and Caitlin look at each other, their hair soaked and raindrops trailing down their faces, one of them dancing around the tip of his nose—and both burst out laughing.

This is ridiculous.

It's hilarious, really, thinking about it, and watching Caitlin cover a hand over her face he thinks she agrees; after everything the universe has thrown at them, from being strangers to each other to this final wet insult, the panic attacks, and the car trouble, they're still pushing through, they're still on the road together.

How can it be, that despite all these bad omens he can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be?

Their laughter pushes up against the windows attempting to break free, and they're both gasping for air in no time; in the midst of all that joy, in the midst of losing and finding themselves in each other's laughter, the most imperfect thought imposes itself.

How can anyone so lost be so beautiful?

Caitlin's laughter colored her cheeks a rosy red, and the rain gave her skin a luminous shine, and truth be told it's silly to think of the universe as a sentient thing conspiring against them, but to think of it as an imperfect construction that placed people in his path at exactly the right times, well, he can't find fault in that logic.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe running away from his problems will only prove how immature and irresponsible he is despite thinking he's outgrown that kind of behavior.

But it's the best mistake he's ever made.

"Oh God"—Caitlin tries to catch her breath, hand over her heart—"I'm sorry for freaking out on you."

"Rule number five," he breathes a smile, even though he means to get to the bottom of Caitlin's crisis of conscience sooner or later, "we're both allowed freak-outs."

Turning her head sideways, Caitlin looks at him, and smiles, and for a moment or two within those few seconds of eye contact he sees the rest of their journey unfold before his eyes; driving through endless seas of green, nothing but fresh air and the wide open road branching out into every possibility imaginable, and the far-off promise of his childhood at the end of it.

Caitlin starts the car. "It's number six."

"Six?"

"Six."

"I'm sure it's five."

Caitlin rolls her eyes, expertly pulling out of the parking lot. "I'll write them down for you."

And she does just that, once they drag their bags out of the car and into the motel room, and he starts boiling some water for their food. She showers the rain off her skin and the sand from between her toes, and settles on the bed while he washes up, their wet clothes drying on the radiator one item at a time. Caitlin scribbles hastily in a small notebook she had the sense to pack, jotting down their disjointed set of rules.

This wasn't a mistake, he thinks as he settles on his own bed and watches Caitlin's hair dry into long natural curls—they're simply two people trying to find a balance between the few details they do know about each other and the great friendship that could grow. He can't wait to get to know her as someone other than the girl next door.

"Maybe we should add one," he says.

Something stirs inside his stomach once Caitlin looks up at him, her eyes impossibly big and light, with no apprehension behind them; he can't shake the thought of falling, through a cluster of stars far outside the known galaxy. Before long he may have to admit he's taken with her in ways that far exceed the bounds of any potential friendship.

But there's a time and place for that.

"Add one?" Caitlin asks.

"Get drunk at least once during this trip?"

Caitlin giggles and blushes, reminded of the tantrum she'd thrown at the convenience store, and brushes her hair back behind her ear. In the realm of rules he could think of this one held the most promise for disaster, and they'd be tempting fate all over again, but what the hell—

The universe is overrated, anyway. So screw it.

Could it be?

Yes, it could.

Something's coming.

Something good.

.

.

three. _it's the first time i've been more than dust_

.

Things start looking up from there.

The skies clear, wisps of clouds floated like cotton dotted through the blue, the sun a beacon lighting an undefined path ahead. Yellow lines zipped by in short bursts of broken dashes, tires clicking off the occasional crack in the asphalt.

Head tipped back, red wayfarers resting on his nose, Barry can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be. Home seems farther away than it's ever been and some of the storm that'd knitted his shoulders into such a tight mess eased off, in no small part thanks to Caitlin. It helps to know she's in this with him, coextending along those same yellow lines.

This is what spring break ought to look like, the way it did in the movies, travelling with unlikely allies and heedlessly hoping to stay ahead of the real life problems pursuing them. It's probably a miscalculation on both their parts to think that they will, but for once that's no immediate worry.

He pulls the Pentax camera from his backpack and takes a look at the road ahead through the viewer, the world much smaller at the end of the lens.

"That looks old," Caitlin remarks, whipping a lock of her hair back behind her shoulder.

"My grandpa's," he says, clicking the rewind lever. "Dad had it restored for graduation."

Caitlin smiles softly at that, before shying away from the camera.

Whatever frustrations that'd held Caitlin back yesterday seem gone, however, and it makes for an easy and quiet ride over winding roads surrounded by the forest. Canopies of green overhanging the road offer relief from the sun, birdsong coming from the trees as the blue Fiat's engine hums a steady background noise.

Barry looks at Caitlin, and his eyes slip involuntarily along her profile, her cute button of a nose, her slightly puckered lips, her brown eyes focused intently on the road.

"How come we never became friends?"

Caitlin's lips pucker further, a frown lowering her brow. "What do you mean?"

"We lived next door to each other most of our lives." He shrugs in the small space the car allows. "We're the same age."

"I'm not sure that's the only basis for a friendship."

It is for kids, he thinks; they don't parse their feelings toward others at such a young age because the world hasn't yet taught them to. He could've easily played hide-and-seek with Caitlin and it wouldn't have mattered that she was a girl or good at hiding, or that she beat him at Operation or any of the other games lying around the house. He would've definitely bested her in Twister, though.

"We're both science nerds," he tries, caught in the fond smile that curls around a corner of Caitlin's mouth.

"Maybe the universe wasn't ready."

For them?, he wonders, and grows attached to the idea within seconds, of their parallel lines meeting in some other dimension, where he and his mom brought the Snows a pie to welcome them to the neighborhood and he and Caitlin become quick friends. Winters they'd spent indoors with their matching chemistry sets, Caitlin biting at her lower lip as she peered down the tube of the microscope, and when summer got too warm they'd be out in the garden running circles around the sprinklers.

But he doubts that alternate lateral movement would've led them to this same point and place in time. He's not sure he'd sacrifice the present –panic attacks and all– for the possibility of that fantasy past.

"I thought the universe didn't send messages," he teases, which earns him an eye roll Caitlin's big sunglasses fail to disguise.

Even if the universe weren't calling the shots, they fell into each other's orbit when they needed it the most, when the irresistible desire to escape had long outgrown the need to be home, and he shouldn't be thinking so hard to change that—not that he could if he tried. He's not sure how he'd handle the universe actually caring.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Caitlin asks unprompted, as if plucking the question out of the air between them, grown thinner in the space of those few words.

His eyebrows rise with an ineloquent, "Hmm?" before his grandpa's camera lowers to his lap, fingernails ticking against the ribbed black plastic.

"Or boyfriend," Caitlin adds with a nonchalant little shrug.

His cheeks heat up. "I don't, no."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I just– don't."

"But you've dated."

"I mean—" He frowns. "Yeah, I guess."

Truth be told a girlfriend hasn't been a priority to him the way it has to other people his age—it seemed illogical to get to know someone else when he hadn't gotten to know himself yet, or when his parents' expectations lay across his shoulders like a yoke. He'd been on exactly two dates over the past six months, neither of them successful enough to convince him to go on more. But that was okay. He wasn't in any rush, and he had a hurdle or two to leap in the meantime.

"Perfect pizza," Caitlin fires at him without missing a beat, and if it weren't for her previous question being a whole lot more personal he might have suffered whiplash. Questions about his love life aren't his favorite topic of conversation but it's comforting that their rule of not discussing the reasons that brought them here didn't include answering other questions.

"Pepperoni, olives and jalapeños."

"No pineapple?"

He grimaces. "Maybe we can't be friends after all."

This earns him a playful slap to the shoulder, and traps a laugh so high inside his sternum it nearly bursts through skin and bone. It remains there, his laughter, stuck still inside his chest, blooming around everything he means to learn about Caitlin; every little thing and more, her wishes and hopes and dreams, and everything that might make her laugh out loud.

"Where did you live before you moved to Central City?" he asks, trading two questions for one of his own.

"Keystone."

Caitlin drums her thumbs against the steering wheel, lips parting as she adds, "I think it was hard for my mom to stay there after my dad died."

Shit. He hoped to avoid bringing up her dad.

When Caitlin and her mom first moved in next door it'd struck him as odd Caitlin's dad hadn't joined them; at five years old he didn't yet understand some families weren't the same as his, that some moms and dads didn't stay together or that anything terrible could happen to either of his parents. It'd been a hard life lesson to learn, and to this day it made him sad for Caitlin.

"I'm not sure it helped her much."

His eyes fall to the camera in his lap, the unbridled joy in his chest ebbing away. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Caitlin hushes, a brush of sadness in her voice, though not enough to worry him that his question came across as too prying. "My grandparents live in Central City. It's nice to have them close-by when my mom's too much."

"What are they like?"

"I'm not sure my mom shares any of her DNA with them."

He smiles.

"They're still crazy about each other after fifty years. They travel every chance they get. They've always been supportive of me. Came to all my spelling bees and science fairs."

"What's your favorite word you ever had to spell?"

"Onomatopoeia," Caitlin answers, without her tongue tying into knots.

"Onomato– what?"

"Onomatopoeia."

He shakes his head, disbelief curling around one corner of his mouth. "That's not a real word."

"It is!" Caitlin exclaims, offended that he would think otherwise. "It won me my sixth grade spelling bee."

"What does it mean?"

"It's a word that phonetically suggests the sound that it describes."

Barry considers this for a moment or two.

"Like oink."

"Yeah"—Caitlin laughs open mouthed—"like oink."

Over the next hour he learns that Caitlin detests people who are rude to wait staff, or people who don't clean up after their pets, or people who chew with their mouths open, that she'd tried to pick up jogging and spinning respectively, but it turned out that even though high school was behind her, she still didn't particularly enjoy anything Phys Ed related. So she swam a lot, instead.

"What about you?"

"I run track."

Caitlin grimaces.

He cracks a smile. As odd as it sounded –even to him– running took his mind off things, synced his body with the rampant beat of his heart, and it did leave him to question why he hadn't started his mornings at home jogging, rather than hide beneath the sheets of his bed in the hopes that his problems might disappear if he ignored them long enough. Self-sabotage didn't seem like his style.

"Where do you go to school?"

Barry clears his throat, trying his best to ignore how it closes a little at the mere thought of college. "Ohio State."

"Fancy."

He shrugs. "I guess."

Half a second later Caitlin's eyes are on him, however much she's meant to keep them on the road; he focuses his attention on the forest zipping by behind the window, and –as if she read his mind as her own– Caitlin doesn't continue her line of questioning.

White noise fills the car and slips out of the open roof, like he wished his anxiety would. He draws in a deep breath and bites at his tongue; he hates this. He hates how he can't put distance between him and his worries, that he can't run away from them because they're stuck still inside him, brewing, festering, growing beyond their confines to slip free at the slightest mention of school.

What's worse is he doesn't want Caitlin to think she's at fault for making him feel this way.

All this might be a lot easier if they both knew what topics to avoid.

"Boy, are we terrible at this whole spring break thing."

He blinks and looks at Caitlin, who beams at him big and bright, as if somehow she's managed not to let her anxiety get the upper hand. No more than she had yesterday, anyhow.

"We are"—he laughs—"quite the pair."

Such a pair, in fact, that his internalized anxiety attack ceases to matter the moment it passes. Why would he let it dig its claws into him this far from home? It isn't like he can talk to his parents, here or on the phone; what he has to say should be done face-to-face.

He snaps a picture of Caitlin in profile, strands of her hair cutting through the frame like asymptotes, tending endlessly toward infinity. Has he learned anything about her at all, he wonders, with these near-the-surface questions? Is there such a thing as fathoming Caitlin Snow within the limited amount of days ahead of them? Or was that wishful thinking on his part?

.

For lunch, they pull up to a roadside diner that resembles an oversized bullet caravan. Sun glinting off the metal it's cool inside nonetheless, and they manage to conquer a small table for two near the window that overlooks the road. Caitlin orders a BLT salad with fries on the side, along with an iced tea, while he goes for the Ranch Hulk Burger, complete with mozzarella, bacon, ranch dressing, hash browns, lettuce, tomatoes, onions and pickles.

"You want a bite?" he asks when he catches Caitlin eyeing his food, and unfolds a napkin, with no expectation that Caitlin will take him up on the offer.

"No, thank you"—Caitlin dips a fry in some salad dressing—"I like my cholesterol levels where they are"—and has a small bite of it.

"You're such a girl."

"Excuse me?" Caitlin's eyes widen in shock, though it merely serves to make her cuter, brown eyes big and beautiful, if not somewhat judgmental.

He tilts his head, teasing, "We agreed to try new things."

"You"—she points a finger, eyes narrowing—"agreed no gender prejudice."

"What are you going to do about it, Snow?" he challenges with a crooked smile. "Come on. Have a bite."

Caitlin's nose scrunches in disgust.

"I dare you."

"Oh my God." Caitlin shakes her head, but she's laughing. "Are you twelve?"

"I double dare you."

At that, Caitlin rolls her eyes, even if it fires up her competitive side—she pulls his plate closer and carefully takes hold of the burger, her entire face scrunching together in concentration before she takes a demure little bite, getting some ranch dressing stuck to the tip of her nose.

She chews modestly, avoiding his eyes, and swallows almost imperceptibly.

"It's good, right?"

Caitlin eyes him, half annoyed half amused, wiping her nose before she returns her attention to her salad. In complete silence.

Mild amusement curls around his mouth; Caitlin Snow really is something, this quietly contained young woman who shows so little of herself to others, unless her anger gets the better. Was she like this at home? At school? They'd agreed to respect each other's zones of comfort in as far as they comprised the things they were running from; surely that didn't apply to challenging the boundaries of other comfort zones.

So he can't help himself leaning in and asking, "Aren't you happy you tried?" with a nervy wink.

Caitlin flings a fry at him. All very unladylike.

.

Heat beats down on them hard once the forest flows over into vast grasslands, small farms interspersed with swamps, restored after early settlers drained them for agricultural development. There's nothing but green as far as the eye can see, the wind warm and humid, Ohioan spring at its finest.

Caitlin's playlist wafts unencumbered through the car, a thoughtful mix of pop music and indie rock, drowning out unwanted thoughts and awkward interrogation.

Some of the quiet returns.

Caitlin has her feet propped up on the dashboard, arm extended out of the window, fingers splayed wide as if trying to catch the wind in the palm of her hand. She's twisted her hair together over one shoulder, and the fingers of her left hand tap against her thigh in tune with the music, her head lolling with each bump in the road.

"Penny for your thoughts," he says, a reiteration of what he's said before; if he doesn't curb his boundless curiosity Caitlin might be a rich girl by the time they return home.

"Frozen yoghurt."

Amusement curls between his eyebrows. "Weirdly specific."

Caitlin wags a finger at him. "Don't judge."

Keeping his thumbs hooked around the wheel he raises his hands in surrender. "I'm not judging."

"I have cravings," Caitlin says, without a hint of humor in her voice, "like anyone else."

"Alright, calm down," he hushes, "I'm just—" but loses his train of thought when the next song comes on. He recognizes the familiar tune instantly, bringing with it another memory of a time long past, when he sat curled into his mom's side on the couch, watching Singing in the Rain and West Side Story.

"Summer lovin'?"

"Is that more judgement?"

"Hey, no. I love musicals."

Where had that time gone, when musicals were an answer to everything, and fixed problems that seemed just as big as the ones he had now? Had it been swept up in life marching on, his line running parallel to Caitlin's, along which he grew up and his problems gained weight too?

"It's one of the few movies I can remember watching with my dad," Caitlin says. "I never liked it much."

"I'm sorry?"

"It sends the message that a person needs to change who they are or how they dress," Caitlin says, tapping her feet against the dashboard, "just to be accepted."

That's odd. He never looked at Grease from that point of view.

"You don't think it's about two people meeting each other halfway?"

Two lines, slowly moving closer together.

Caitlin draws in a short breath, but whatever argument she meant to make dies at the back of her throat. She hums, "I don't know," and shrugs, "Maybe," thinking over his question in the quiet that follows.

It occurs to him that like Sandy, like him, Caitlin knows what it feels like not to belong, not to fit a mold created by other people, whether those people were parents or teachers or their peers. Their dreams were nothing more than misconceptions imposed by others who might want what's best for them, but never considered their feelings in the matter; the analogy to Sandy doesn't hold up entirely, and he still doesn't know Caitlin well enough to make any assumptions, but he senses they may be more alike than either of them realize.

.

("This doesn't have to end," he whispers to the wind, to the clouds, to the layered atmosphere and to the stars, and every lightyear that carries his words further out into the galaxy.

"What?" Caitlin asks.

"We don't have to stop," he says, words distorted by stellar drift, folding through space and time into a dimension where any of this might be real. "We can just– keep going."

It's a selfish wish, a hapless dream. He thinks, let's make this last much longer than we need to, let's make for the stars along the metric expansion of space, chase black holes and supernovas, solve the greatest mysteries of the universe.

What did reinvention matter when they could uncover the secrets of the cosmos together?

"Just give me a chance," he says, in a parallel universe where Barry Allen is much braver, though naive enough to think the impossibly big questions alive inside him would pale against the universe's. What makes him happy? What does he want from life?

Caitlin nods, with the expanding universe shining hopeful in her eyes.)

.

"Barry?" Caitlin says, her voice so soft it's her spoon freezing mid-scoop in her dessert that draws his focus. Her lower lip slips between her teeth and he sits mesmerized as she mangles it a darker red, thinking over something unfathomable. Could it be that the questions that lived inside him were Caitlin's too?

"We are friends," Caitlin asks, "aren't we?"

Taken aback by the sudden question, he stutters, "Y-yeah," before watching Caitlin shrink a bit smaller, shoulders hunched as she stabs her spoon at the frozen yoghurt.

He licks his lips and leans forward across the table, "Cait," he stresses, desperate to catch her eyes so none of what he says next can be misconstrued. Where does any of this come from? The girl who's sat by his side these past three days is anything but cold or boring or nonspontaneous. If all he gets out of this roadtrip is her friendship he'll take that bargain gladly, it'll have all been worth it, because she's already enriched his life by becoming part of it.

Caitlin looks up.

"Of course we're friends," he says. "You're not– cold. Or uptight."

Shoulders relaxing, Caitlin eyes him nonetheless, less convinced than he hoped she would be. "I'm not sure you know me well enough to say that."

"I've known you all but three days and I know you're not cold."

Caitlin's head tilts, lips pressing together.

"No one cold freaks out over beers or how they're perceived by others. You're– guarded, maybe. But that doesn't make you cold."

"What does that make me?"

His eyebrows rise, and he answers, "Careful?" with far more uncertainty in his voice than he intended. What does he know? He may not consider himself cold or uptight but he hasn't exactly been forthcoming with his feelings in recent days. All he wants is for Caitlin to see, to realize, that the way she perceives herself isn't everyone else's truth, or that the way a conceited few see her doesn't define her identity.

For a moment or two, Caitlin considers this, gears and wheel clicking together as she rifles through her thoughts. She's not cold, not in the least, but he never took her as someone insecure about this aspect of her life, either. Making friends came easy to him despite his inherent shyness, so he can't relate to this particular crisis of conscience, much less offer constructive advice.

But maybe that's not the point.

.

That night, stopped at the next motel along the road, they finish an on-the-go meal sat by the pool outside; the whole basin's been emptied, and judging by the crumbled layer of leaves and dirt at the bottom of the pool it's unlikely anyone's used it in a while. But it'll do.

Along the far horizon the setting sun colored the sky orange and varying shades of red and pink, making way for soft blues and purples, before, finally, allowing the dark of night to take hold.

Legs dangling over the side of the pool, they sit side by side, taking in the stars in the clear sky above them.

"There's Cassiopeia," Caitlin says, and points out the W-shaped constellation, comprising five bright stars; the queen alone, upside down on her throne.

According to mythology, it's her vanity that landed her up there, and he can't help but wonder if he's fallen into those same trappings, vain enough to think college could be what his parents wanted it to be. Vain enough to think he can run from his problems, or doesn't sense them bearing down on him like his sins incarnate.

"Ursa Minor."

"Andromeda," Caitlin says.

He frowns, "You can't see Andromeda this time of year", eyes nonetheless attempting to pinpoint the binary stars and red giant.

Caitlin smiles. "Just keeping you on your toes."

A smile spills into Barry's lips.

All in all, the universe hadn't put too many obstacles in their path today, not like it had yesterday, and it did beg the question how much of their misfortunes up until now had been of their own making, or a matter of them reading too much into things. Caitlin may be making this trip for different reasons but they decided to forge their own path, take matters into their own hands. Make their own fate.

"Have you ever done anything like this?"

"Like this?" Caitlin asks, and for a few seconds his mouth runs too dry to speak at all. Not for the first time since they started this he sees her, truly sees her, and can't imagine finding calm anywhere else but by Caitlin's side, where their something-shared becomes something less, something almost bearable. It's much easier to breathe when there's someone breathing with you.

"Run away with someone."

Under the protection of the moon and stars, under the spell of the brilliant night sky he's naïve enough to think no one's ever done anything that comes close to this. No boy has ever had the privilege of seeing Caitlin like this, stuck still and wandering, but utterly free under a wide-open bright and starlit sky.

Caitlin catches his eyes, a coy little smile coloring her face. "I wouldn't run away with just anyone."

"Then—"

"Why you?" Caitlin asks, and bumps their shoulders together. "You asked me first."

It's true, he thinks, as he recalls that moment in the backyard, too caught up in Caitlin's sorrow to focus on his own, oddly drawn to the similarities between them. His empathy had made him bold, bolder than he'd been in a long time.

There's something to all this, being lost souls, being alone together, being lost together. They're kids the two of them, despite their nineteen years, falling through an endless cluster of disaster and mistakes, of happy accidents and freakouts, of rules they're bound to break.

Maybe that's the point.

.

.

four. _and another couple more to go_

.

Their third morning on the road, it's Barry's phone that violently pulls him from his dreams. One moment he's chasing a girl with long brown hair and a beautiful white dress through an intricate maze of winding green roads, continually failing at catching up, next he knocks his phone clean off the nightstand, making him shoot up in a mad scramble.

His parents' ringtone.

Why were they calling?

Up until today they'd left him alone, save for the occasional text. He thought maybe his mom realized, upon letting him go, that some time off would do him well, or that that'd been his intention, in any case. No such luck, apparently.

"Mom?" he whispers, rushing into the bathroom, his head still rife with sleep and the siren call of the faceless girl in his dream. "What's wrong?"

"Just checking in, son," his dad's voice rings in his ear.

Like that, he sinks down to the ground with the weight of everything he's been running from, the burden too much to bear. His eyes close and his fingers wind tighter around his phone, legs pulled up to his chest. How had he ever hoped to escape it? Why did he think running would help? His fears lived alive inside him no matter where he went and he alone could ease his suffering.

But he's not ready to confront home.

"We haven't heard from you. How's the lake?"

The startling cold from the bathroom tiles sinks through the thin layer of his white shirt, his tongue thickens, and drawing in a breath becomes so much harder. Tears touch his eyes.

"It's great," he lies, unsure why there's any need to. "Yeah"—he clears his throat—"There are a lot of memories here."

"Maybe we can head out there again this summer," his dad says, but the excitement in his dad's voice doesn't infect him the same way. This is the second time he's lied to his parents and it makes him sick to think it stems from the same place—honesty usually comes so easy to him and now when it mattered, when he needed his parents to hear him clearer than ever, he's chosen silence. Solitude. Wandering.

"Y-Yeah, dad." His voice shakes. "Sounds great."

He scarcely recognizes himself anymore. How can he expect to be heard from all the way out here?

"We won't keep you," his mom says. "Have fun, Barry. We love you."

"Love you too."

Without much self-respect left he ends the call, and falls into a treacherous downward spiral. He should've stayed home. He should've come home and faced his dilemma head on, without overthinking, without fear of the repercussions, because if he had this thing inside him never would've gotten the chance to grow, and he might have already moved past this.

Now look at him. On the bathroom floor of some cheap roadside motel.

Pathetic.

He understands now what Caitlin was talking about that night outside the convenience store, how pathetic it was to think that running away would provide any answers to such big terrifying questions. Who is Caitlin Snow?

Who is Barry Allen?

Where does he go from here?

"Barry?" comes Caitlin's voice, followed by the gentle drum of her fingers against the door. "Everything okay?"

Drawing a hand down his face Barry sighs; he's no better than he was the morning they left, or the night the idea of their road trip took root in Caitlin's mind. He's still that kid in the backyard, rudderless, compass pointing any direction but the dead center where he should be.

He should be home.

"Yeah," he calls nonetheless, because he'd hate to worry Caitlin.

He stands and opens the door, where Caitlin's smile greets him like a breath of fresh air, loosening the string around his throat. Guilt stabs at his chest within an instant—his reasons for leaving were valid, he should trust that instinct, but a lot of it had to do with the company too. If not for Caitlin, he wouldn't be facing his problems at all.

Most of it doesn't make any sense at all; was he running from his problems or toward them? He's lost track.

"Was that your mom?"

"And dad."

"Checking in on you?"

He shrugs, absentmindedly scratching at his clear phone casing. So much of the past few days was made possible because of Caitlin. Were they still two separate parallel lines running at equal distance from each other? Was this trip meant to change that? Or was he nothing more but a kindred spirit to Caitlin, someone she could take along so she wouldn't have to travel on her own. Maybe she has a boyfriend back at Kent, or maybe he's nothing more than a means to an end.

"What did your mom say when you told her you were going on a road trip with me?"

Caitlin blinks up at him, her wide eyes taking in his face for long excruciating moments.

For whatever reason he can't take his eyes off her, not when she starts chewing the inside of her cheek, not when a soft blush paints her skin pink. Why did he feel the need to doubt her reasons for asking him along, when it's clear it's never been within his power to refuse her?

"She called me irresponsible and childish and wondered why I bothered coming home at all," Caitlin says, eyeing him more carefully.

What kind of mother talks to her daughter like that?

"You she called a good-for-nothing."

In any other circumstance hearing how Carla Tannhauser-Snow called him a good-for-nothing would be amusing; now it merely underscores the pitiful doubts unspooling earlier certainties. Were they nothing more than two foolish kids avoiding their responsibilities? Was Mrs. Snow right?

"Hey," Caitlin calls softly, stroking a hand down his arm.

She sees him so clearly, he thinks, perhaps clearer than he sees her; Caitlin knew when to push and when to hold back, when to ask him the tough questions, and when to strengthen his belief in anything but a sentient universe. They were forging their own path, after all, and she wasn't about to let his overthinking ruin that.

"My mom hasn't made decisions for me in a very long time, Barry," Caitlin says, coming a step closer. "I want to be here. With you."

An ache starts deep in his heart. None of his fears included his parents turning him away at the door, thinking him childish or irresponsible—Caitlin has it so much harder than him but she hasn't let it beat her down or turn her into the kind of cold person she fears she is. All this time she's been looking out for him, and he hasn't showed her the same kindness in turn.

He never meant to doubt Caitlin or her intentions, because that's no different than branding her with stereotypes. It's just that last night he was a lot more convinced of that. Of them. And of their journey.

"You—" Caitlin stutters, her hands moving erratically. "This wouldn't have worked with anyone else," and follows it up with a small shy smile that nearly brings him to his knees.

They're so very alike.

He gets it.

He hasn't been his own best company either.

Caitlin pushes past him into the bathroom and shoves him back into the room, successfully conquering her time in the bathroom. He huffs a laugh, but it's nowhere near as cheerful as those that came before.

.

Despite Caitlin's assurance that she's exactly where she wants to be, he starts questioning his own convictions. His parents' phone call did nothing but stir up hurts he tried to press pause on and all the big questions hit him like a punch in the gut all over again. If he's not going to be a doctor, then what should he be? Who should he be?

Last night, under the protection of the moon and stars, he felt a lot more confident about finding answers to those questions than he did now.

Caitlin takes her turn behind the wheel, and he loses himself again in his own private storm, short of breath, exhausted, on the verge of a panic attack each moment of the next few hours, everything he was running from caught up when he wasn't looking.

Somehow Caitlin must be able to tell, because she cranks up the music in the car and focuses on the road, giving him the space he needs.

Not that it helps much; there's barely room for all his thoughts inside his head let alone the car, but he's terrified to drag Caitlin into this too.

So he bottles it up, locks it away, pushes it down. Like he's gotten used to doing.

.

He skips lunch in favor of taking a nap in the car, even though his dreams are plagued by people pointing fingers, huge lidless eyes following him wherever he goes, and a girl in a white dress in the distance, far out of his reach.

"I can drive," he says, once Caitlin returns and sits in the driver's seat again.

Caitlin shakes her head. "I don't mind."

At this point, he's hardly one to argue.

He sits curled in a ball in the passenger's seat, like some petulant child who refuses to enjoy anything until he gets his way; except he has no idea what he wants, or where to go, or how to shake this panic without giving into it.

Outside the window the world keeps turning, rushing by along yellow lines and cracks in the asphalt, and Caitlin hums along to her music out of tune and he's sick to his stomach with it, with thinking and the car moving relentlessly onward and the humid air sinking into his clothes, and—

"Can you"—his stomach turns—"can you stop?"

"Barry?"

"Please, pull over," he chokes out, unfurling while he reaches for the door handle, and stumbles out of the car one gangly limb after the other, before he's throwing up his breakfast in the bushes, heaving so deep his chest hurts.

He spits and groans, clutching at his stomach, none of the pressure on his skull abated.

"Barry," comes Caitlin's voice.

He never even heard her get out of the car.

"I'm okay," he says, knees shaking, "I just—"

"I know," Caitlin says, before her hand lands between his shoulder blades, all warm and soothing, and she offers him a bottle of water. "Take your time."

"Thanks."

Caitlin's hand falls away.

His head thunders with a headache, heart still racing like he'd run a marathon. Something had to give sooner or later, he knew that, he couldn't keep repressing his anxiety without it blowing up in his face, but he'd hoped to hide it from Caitlin. Why, he's not sure, when one of their cardinal rules was they were both allowed their freakouts.

Some of it might have to do with what an absolute mess he's spun himself into.

He washes his mouth with a few sips of water, barely chasing away the dry sensation in his throat, and joins Caitlin back at the car.

"Cait—"

"You know it's okay not to be, right?" Caitlin interrupts, catching his eyes over the hood of the car. "I mean, I'm not okay either, and—"

It echoes an answer she'd given him days ago, back home so deep in their backyards their parents couldn't spy on them, as if she'd been waiting for someone to come along and ask. Couldn't her mom see, like his mom could, that something wasn't right? Didn't Mrs. Snow realize? Or was it that Caitlin was a master at hiding whenever she struggled with something? Had she been on the verge of a panic or anxiety attack too, sometime over the past few days? Had he missed it?

"We'll get there, Barry Allen." Caitlin smiles, her eyes filled with a twinkling he's seen in them before.

She has so much hope, for the journey yet to come.

"You're amazing, you know that?" he blurts out, and he suspects some of that twinkle shines in his eyes now.

Caitlin shrugs.

"I mean it. Cait, you just—"

Caitlin has a way with him, that's what, and he can't tell if that's because she's got an A+ bedside manner, or if there's something special about him, about them, that makes it easy for her to say such deep meaningful things.

He chooses to believe the latter.

"You have a way with people and you don't even realize."

A deep blush spreads in Caitlin's cheeks.

They stand staring at each other far longer than necessary.

"You want to get some beer?"

It's been a long day; driving for another few hours was unlikely to lift his spirits much, and he could do with some unwinding. Some irresponsibility too, maybe.

Caitlin catches his eyes. "Are we going to try that again?"

"We said we'd get drunk at least once." Barry shrugs. "We'll be at the lake tomorrow."

For a moment or two, Caitlin considers this.

But it doesn't take her long.

"Okay." She points at him. "But I'm picking the store."

Twenty minutes later Caitlin finds a store to her liking, and as he exits the car he swears he can hear her mutter nineteen ninety-three under her breath several times, as if she'd rehearsed her answers should this attendant ask about her fake birth year as well.

Browsing the store they get salads for dinner, some sweet and sour chips to pair with the beer, and a six pack of Heineken, which said more about their limited knowledge of beer than any other college experience.

The attendant scans all the items one by one, and Caitlin's practically on the tips of her toes when the beers are scanned.

No questions follow.

And Caitlin seems just a tad disappointed.

Which might be the cutest thing he's ever witnessed.

All things considered, maybe he should've let Caitlin pick the store last time, because everything goes off without a hitch and he carries the beers outside without any policemen tackling him to the ground.

Outside, Caitlin maintains her composure long enough to disappear from the attendant's direct line of sight before she skips a triumphant little uncoordinated three-step, falling against his chest as she throws her arms around his neck.

"I did it!" she squeals, making his ears ring, but when she pulls back her smile is so wide it makes her eyes all crinkly in the corners, and it infects him, lifting some of the day's heft right off his shoulders. It's one of many of her remarkable powers over him, the effortless yet genteel way she toggles his heart strings.

His heart flutters, first in his chest where it's supposed to, then swooping down to his stomach. It makes him realize how truly crazy about her he's become, and how much the boundary of friendship has started to blur.

Not before a thunderclap sounds above their heads, startling them both.

Caitlin gasps, "This is a sign", and when the skies open above them and drench them within seconds she laughs aloud, tilting her head back to catch the rain on her cheeks.

"From the universe," he deadpans with a rise of his brow.

For someone so intent on claiming the universe didn't send messages, Caitlin sure did put a lot of stock in what it said. How can he argue, though, when all he gets as a response is more of her infectious laughter.

Caitlin beams. "Second chances do happen, Barry Allen."

Where did the girl go who'd freaked out right before the last thunderstorm, about letting go and being irresponsible, about breaking away from her mother and the way she was perceived? Where was that far-too-young teenager barely out of high school, so incredibly worried that she'd rust in place?

Somehow, Caitlin's letting herself get swept up in the magnificence of this all, the journey they're on and the lines they're travelling, just like he hoped to.

"Second chance at catching a cold," he jokes.

Caitlin puffs out a hot breath, her lips spritzing rain. "Spoilsport."

He hiccups a laugh, one true and deep and fervent, for the first time since he got up this morning. It isn't like he's not right there with her, getting soaked down to his underwear, braving the rain because heck, this is a sign, it must be, of better days to come. If the universe had a plan for them it's this right here, the both of them laughing as the sky cries, warm on the inside as their skins grow cold, being alone together in the middle of nowhere.

.

While Caitlin showers he sits on the floor of the motel room waiting, shivering despite the towel thrown around his shoulders, his thoughts accompanied by the melody of the rain and thunder, the lightning that follows a magnificent yet terrifying show of nature. He idly wonders if it's raining in Central City as well, if his parents are staring at the same storm clouds, if they're worried at all about how long he's been gone and if he's finding what he's looking for. Running away so suddenly wasn't really fair to his parents, not after everything they've done for him, but he hopes they don't blame them.

Sometimes people just needed a little distance.

That night, as the remainder of the light disappears from the horizon, they settle outside on the small porch of their motel room, watching the rain drip off the eaves, the distant rumble of thunder a small reminder that while they've hunkered down and settled for the night, today had been an overall somber day, one he'd much rather forget all about.

He lends Caitlin one of his OSU hoodies once the temperature drops, her small hands bunching the ends of the long sleeves together.

Two bottles of beer open with a short fizz.

Caitlin reaches out and catches some rain in the palm of her hand. "What if I transferred to Ohio State?"

Barry's head turns.

Caitlin smiles sweetly and shrugs. "I could be your friend."

Barry scoffs without much heat behind it, just the beginnings of a suspicion as to why Caitlin ran away with him in the first place. Was she thinking about transferring schools? In the middle of the semester? Was that the yoke she'd shouldered all through spring break? Why would she want to?

"I do have friends, you know."

"So 'no', then?"

He smiles, coming to understand Caitlin's own particular sense of humor. "It has to be something you want."

He could most definitely stand to have Caitlin around more often. Even if this trip started out as both of them getting away for their own reasons, they've found a lot more similarities between them than either of them ever expected to find. He has a lot of amazing people in his life, but a Caitlin Snow had been sorely missing up until now.

"Tell me about them?"

Rain clatters on the tin roof above them, in an offbeat rhythm that doesn't entirely put him at ease.

"Your friends?" Caitlin prompts.

Barry takes a sip from his beer before bringing the bottle down into both his hands, and opens some of the floodgates he'd been staunchly avoiding for quite a while now. Perhaps it's time to let some of it in, since he's no step closer to a solution. Was that something at all possible, when he's been so intent on running the other way?

First day of orientation at Ohio State he'd stood at the center of the Oval, the heart of the Columbus campus, and felt like he was exactly where he belonged. College might have been a big change from his comfortable routine in Central City, but he'd get to do so much more than simple classroom science. His teachers could barely keep up with his curiosity in high school, but at Ohio State that wouldn't be the case. There was so much here he could learn, so much he wanted to learn.

When had he lost that drive?

"There's Cisco Ramon," he says, "my best friend and roommate," and smiles at the thought of Cisco hearing about his spring break adventure, which would undoubtedly lead to far too many prying questions and an endless amount of ribbing. "You'd like him, he's hilarious."

"A fellow scientist?"

"Mechanical engineer." Barry nods, taking another quick sip. "He likes making the toys."

"Who else?"

"Why do you want to know about my friends?"

Caitlin turns towards him, folding her legs together. "Because I want to know about you."

For a few seconds, he can't help but stare at her, at her ardent eyes, her cute nose, until his eyes fall to her lips, beer left behind a wet spot on the bottom one.

Barry clears his throat.

"We hang out with Felicity Smoak a lot," he continues, trying to get his mind off of kissing the girl next door. "Computer science major by day and hacktivist by night. Out to save the world."

"There's Hartley–" he pauses, trying to think of something nice to say about the heir of the Rathaway empire, "–he's a bit of a dick but we're friends.

"He's currently undeclared but that's because he can do just about anything.

"And Patty Spivot, criminology major," he concludes, "Also out–"

A noose tightens around his neck.

"–to save the world."

His throat closes up as he thinks about his friends, how Cisco and Felicity have known what they wanted to be since they were kids, and while it was tragedy that set Patty on her path to becoming a CSI she too was free from any doubt.

But this supposed dream of his—

He doesn't want to be a doctor, so why is he taking anatomy and biology classes, slaving over volumes of medical journals all in an attempt to import all that knowledge into his brain? Why has he been living this lie, perpetuating the idea that somehow his parents' expectations are still something he can live up to?

"Barry?"

Tears spring to his eyes and he sets down his beer, placing the palms of his hands on either side of him, searching for grounding against the stone-cold pavement.

"Barry, I'm sorry," Caitlin says, and grabs a hand around his shoulder. "I didn't mean to–"

Barry shakes his head, eyes closing, and imagines himself on the road again, in the temperate quiet of Caitlin's blue car, nothing but yellow lines and the wind through his hair.

Some of the pressure eases around his trachea.

He could do with a run about now, or a change in subject, but for some reason he stays on topic. They'll reach the lake tomorrow and he's realized it won't provide any answers to the questions swimming through his mind. If he talks to Caitlin, at least there'll have been some point to getting away.

"Sometimes–" He stares out in front of him, at some undetermined spot in the dark, "–it's like I can't breathe, you know? I think about my dad and how he'll react and this panic rushes over me and–"

Why did this make him so afraid? Neither of his parents would hurt a fly.

"Is that why you came?" Caitlin asks. "Because of your dad?"

Was it? Had his panic attacks made him afraid of his own dad? The same man who used to drive him to the lake, who taught him how to pitch a tent and fish and tickled him until he was out of breath?

"I am aware, of course, that I'm breaking our most sacred rule by asking."

He smiles at Caitlin's attempt at lightening the mood, and takes a deep breath.

No time like the present.

"I came home to tell my dad I'm not going to be a doctor like him," he confesses out loud for the first time, as if the decision has already been made. But as he thinks on it, sat on that small porch at the motel walled in by the rain, he realizes it has been. He may not know what he wants but the past few months taught him what he didn't want and that was equally as valuable.

"It's my parents' dream for me."

Yet the more he turns it over in his head, the more he understands that's not the entire truth; that dream wasn't his parents alone, and it wasn't his alone, rather an amalgam of wrongful assumptions that'd led to this predicament.

"It was mine too, for a long time, but–"

"Dreams change," Caitlin supplies, her hand still grabbed around his shoulder.

His eyes find hers and he's reminded of that girl sat next to him in the car, asking him to run away with her, both of them lost and wandering.

Perhaps a little less, right now.

"Guess I'm trying to find some courage."

Caitlin smiles softly. "Courage is fear that's said its prayers."

"I'm sorry?"

"Something"—Caitlin shrugs, hand falling away from his shoulder—"my dad used to say", a giddiness to her manner that makes him wish he could've met her dad. Did her rebellious side come from him? Did she get along with her mom when her dad was still alive? Had he been anything like this vibrant yet calculated girl sitting next to him now?

The things he wishes to still learn about Caitlin Snow.

"I'd like to make a toast," he says.

"To parents and their boundless dreams for us," Caitlin provides, and raises her beer alongside his.

"To forging our own path."

Their bottles of beer clink together.

A toast, to their short-lived life of crime.

Sipping from his beer Barry lets it sit in his mouth a moment longer, the bitter taste in sharp contrast to the sweet haze gathering behind his eyes. He swallows and watches Caitlin do the same, while a light blush starts in her cheeks—his heat up uncontrollably, and he can't decide if that's the alcohol or not.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, voice thick and heavy, feeling a little braver.

Caitlin draws in a deep breath and looks away, to that same undetermined spot in the dark he'd been staring at moments ago. He's still not too keen on prying, but maybe his confession will make hers easier, show Caitlin that there's no need to be afraid and that whatever she tells him will never leave this eye of the storm.

"I came home to tell my mom I'm going to transfer schools," Caitlin blurts out in a single quick breath, before taking a few long sips from her beer.

Their similarities have never stood out more. Both of them in knots over school, both of them home to tell their parents. Both of them so afraid to say anything they ran away together the moment they met a kindred spirit.

"Kent's her alma mater," Caitlin says. "Everywhere I go I'm Carla Tannhauser's daughter. I'm never just Caitlin"—she shrugs—"I don't- want to live in her shadow."

Caitlin catches his eye.

"Is that selfish?"

"God, no."

Barry makes a half turn toward her, blood rushing at lightspeed through his veins as he closes the distance between them, his head swimming a little. It wasn't too long ago he wished he could disappear, turn invisible to avoid too many scrutinizing looks from the people who knew him best, but now, here, in this narrow cluster of all their secrets, there's a single person he wants to be seen by.

"Cait," he says, even though she's right there and hasn't taken her eyes off him. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be your own person."

"No," Caitlin agrees, tone mellow and pensive, lips parting. "I guess there isn't."

And then, quite unconsciously, he falls forward, falls until his lips push up against Caitlin's, falls until they're so close an atom couldn't come between them, until his sight and hearing and sense of smell eclipse with his burning need for this. Caitlin pushes back humming to his lips, and any sense of direction he had left disappears too.

These three days by her side, have they all been leading to this one inevitability? Getting to know her, asking all the small questions, asking the big questions except—

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks, but kisses her before Caitlin gets the chance to answer. If she does he's better off not hearing about it, best left living in this perfect haze where he's the only boy to have ever seen Caitlin in this way. Stuck. Still.

"No," Caitlin whispers to his lips, "I don't," before folding both her arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss.

Wandering.

He licks into her mouth, felled by the taste of beer and sweet and sour chips. What he wouldn't give to have this moment last forever, to live in this here and in this now in between yesterday and tomorrow. They're renegades no longer bound by any rules or expectations, least of all their parents', giving in to a gravitational kind of pull.

.

(Neither of them says it, not when Caitlin crawls into his lap or his fingers catch in her long brown curls, how this might be a mistake, how they're too drunk to make the right decisions and moving outside the confines of friendship might not be something they'll both still want once they're sober again.

"Is this okay?" Caitlin will ask, catching Barry's bright green eyes, fingers rifling through his hair, her insides quivering. She images falling asleep in his arms tonight and asking, "Do you still think we made a mistake?", wondering if the words at all encompass her intentions when she'd showed up at his front door, "Leaving?"

Barry will nod and answer both her questions.

"I'm exactly where I need to be.")

.

.

five. _and where i stood was where i was to be_

.

What should've taken them two days, ends up taking twice that and then some.

But it was all well worth it.

At the beach where so many of his childhood memories lived, Barry takes off his shoes and digs his toes deep into the sand, breathing in deeper than his lungs had allowed in weeks; he smells fresh dirt and wet leaves, and the slightest hint of rain still in the air, whispering of days gone by.

In his mind's eye a much younger version of himself skips pebbles on the water, unencumbered by the present or the future, rather a Barry living in the there and then, worried only about finding the next perfect pebble that might skip one step further than the previous. He watches in wonder as other families pitch tents in the forest, fathers and sons bonding over new adventures.

His memories of this place haven't changed, and they're not changing now, carrying the baggage he does.

If anything he's building new memories for his heart to grow around, with Caitlin, building on an old foundation so strong that nothing built on top could ever destabilize. It doesn't even matter that they took so long getting here they only have one night left at the lake, lest they don't make it back home in time.

Not much of their spring break remains, but he has no regrets, and he highly doubts Caitlin holds any either.

His hangover notwithstanding, he faced today anew, yesterday's bitter tang disappeared in the wake of the taste of Caitlin's mouth, his fingers carded through her hair, and the weight of her on top him that somehow lightened the pressure on his shoulders.

The sun goes down on their final destination, disappearing behind the sky-high pine trees in a spectacle of pinks and greens, deep blues and purples unhurriedly peppering with stars that may be light years removed, but seem well within reach on this balmy summer night.

And all around him it's quiet again.

Barry can't recall the last time he sat this still and thought about home, about school, without experiencing the crushing weight of his responsibilities. Somehow, somewhere, he got the result he'd hoped for all along, and it's unclear whether he'd left all his worries by the side of the roads he travelled with Caitlin, or if they'd hit the atmosphere and dissipated in the space between them when they finally did break rule nr°2 and talk about what'd led them down this path.

Helped by some other campers Barry gets a campfire going, the perfect opportunity for him and Caitlin to share some more stories.

Caitlin throws her head back and laughs, her shrieks travelling the length of the beach while inside his chest a warmth spreads that -unlike the flames of the campfire he built- digs much deeper than the skin. Last night had started a whole other fire inside his belly; kissing Caitlin hadn't been about letting go or being irresponsible or finding distraction in another person. He'd wanted to for a while now, and he'd finally found the courage.

"It's not that funny," he huffs, feigning insult, because he can't help but laugh too.

"I'm sorry"—Caitlin giggles—"You thought it was a good idea to mix glycerol with an oxidizing agent for your seventh grade science project," and stares at him with such disbelief and mirth in her eyes it's difficult to believe the two combine; yet, somehow, in Caitlin they do. She's made up of a lot of contradictions, hot and cold, hard and sweet, rebellious and composed, and he very much doubts anyone has ever seen them the way he's gotten to.

"I honestly thought that starting a chemical fire would help me win," he says. "And I got an A."

Caitlin eyes him.

"I also got suspended," he confesses.

Caitlin hums mindfully, and gets up from the log she sat down on half an hour ago, across from him with the fire between them. His heart rate spikes, and images from the night before swim before his eyes—Caitlin sitting in his lap, her tongue licking at his lips, her hands bunching his hair together, both of them lost in how well their bodies tangled together.

Nudging a toe playfully at his calf Caitlin sinks down, and, much to his delight, slots herself in between his legs, settling in his arms soon after. For someone who considered herself cold he never expected Caitlin to be this affectionate toward him after a single drunk night spent making out, but he's not about to argue the point. She's been on his mind almost non-stop, and he's not about to push his luck.

"I know you said you didn't want to be a doctor," Caitlin says, any rules they had forgotten, washed away in the steady stream of the care and support they've shown each other. "But you still want to be a scientist."

"I do," he answers without hesitation. "More than anything. I've always known that."

The answer seems so simple it nearly strikes him as fake.

Then he remembers the eight-year old trotting around the house in the kid-sized lab coat his mom made, taking out his chemistry set with its collection of test tubes and beakers, the amateur microscope and pipettes—he lugged it all around the house, dug through cabinets to test the pH-values of all the soaps and detergents his mom used, and no matter the mess he made, whatever experiments he wanted to try, his dad was there to help him out.

Science was something they shared and bonded over for as long as he can remember. Somewhere along the way his science melded with his dad's and everyone, including him, assumed he'd follow in his dad's footsteps, become an MD and keep the tradition alive. But no one ever said that that's what he had to be.

He doesn't have to be anyone but himself.

"Barry?"

"Yeah?"

Somewhere in the forest an owl hoots, and a few crickets resume their song, the fire crackling as the combustion gases escape the pores of the burning wood. All around them endured that different sort of quiet, the wind through the trees and the water lapping at the shore, and whatever storm reigned in his chest has finally broken.

Whatever Caitlin means to ask never passes her lips.

Barry kisses her temple, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"What are we really doing here?" he asks, uttering the question she's holding back. What were they thinking running away from their problems, with each other of all people, when all they really knew about each other couldn't fill a single blank page?

That was then.

The night air trembles with Caitlin's smile.

"Saying our prayers," she provides, and he likes that, the idea that this whole trip wasn't just a foolish distraction, not some way to forget about their problems but his fears incarnate. Barry Allen, the boy afraid to talk to his parents laid bare his innermost workings to a complete stranger. If he can talk to Caitlin, surely he can talk to the two people who mean the world to him.

Courage is fear that's said its prayers.

What couldn't he do now?

His arms tighten around Caitlin as she tugs herself closer into his body.

Maybe his dad and him can bond over this again, summer camping trips separating one year of college from the next.

Maybe there'll be no need to reinforce their bond after he talks to him.

He's not sure why he's so convinced that his parents will look at him with nothing but disappointment once he tells them what he wants, for himself, when they've lived their lives making sure he's extended every opportunity possible. They're his parents. Surely the last thing they want for him is to be unhappy.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, lips near the shell of Caitlin's ear, echoing a much older question once asked through the wooden fence separating their backyards.

It seems ages ago that Caitlin was nothing more than the girl next door, Mrs. Snow's daughter who won spelling bees and science fairs, but had been little more than a blip on the larger radar of his life. Caitlin tilts her head back, while the fire dances in her eyes like fireflies.

"I am." She smiles. "You?"

His eyes search her face for something he can't describe, an answer to an unknowable question. He has no clue if he got what he came here for, if his troubles have dissipated or if the place he's given them were temporary confines that'll pop open like a jack-in-the-box as soon as he walks back in the front door; the universe didn't provide answers to impossibly big question just because he asked—but if there's one thing he did get out of all of this it's Caitlin, and he never wants to settle for running parallel to her again.

"I'm better."

Coming home had been the right decision, if only because it put him and Caitlin on the same path.

"It's time to go home, isn't it?" Caitlin asks, pouting a little as she does.

"It's a two day trip back." He shrugs. "Plenty of time to break more rules."

Caitlin sits up, eyes coming level with his. "Like going for a swim?"

"I don't know." He scans the shoreline warily. "The water's really cold."

"Not even in the spirit of 'be open to trying new things'?" she asks, adding the air quotations as if she's mocking the one rule of their short list she hadn't been too keen on from the start.

Before he has a chance to so much as think of a witty remark, Caitlin stands, and takes off his hoodie, followed not long after by her shirt, leaving her in her bra alone.

All blood drains from his face. "Cait?" he says, looking around frantically to make sure they're alone, standing up halfway in an attempt to maintain whatever's left of his composure. "I don't think—"

Caitlin unbuttons her pants.

And his jaw drops.

Days ago she'd shrunk at the suggestion of trying out new things, of stepping out of her comfort zone, which leaves him to wonder exactly where that comfort zone started and where it ended. Where has this side of her been all this time? Had it hid behind her fear of rejection, of giving in and getting swept up in the novelty of all this? The thought alone starts that same uncontainable sense of wonder he felt when they started this, budding alongside a vision of the future that included Caitlin now too.

"I dare you," Caitlin says, stripping out of her pants completely.

He leaps up. "Oh, you–"

Caitlin giggles, "I double dare you" and takes off toward the lake with him mere inches behind, water splashing as they reach the shoreline.

Their laughter carries over the water, up into the trees, making its way into new fantastical memories.

He had no idea what he'd do once he did reach the lake. More than anything it was an excuse to give into the wanderlust panic had spun into his bones, his flight instinct kicking in the second he heard Caitlin crying in the backyard. The result has been nothing short of magical; running away with a girl he barely knew, headed for the hills of his youth to relive old wonders only to find it was the journey that mattered the most, and no destination could've brought him the clarity the past few days have in their own unfathomable ways. The universe had seen them and listened, and set them on this path together, this single line.

Everything; home and school and life made a little more sense again, and however much or little the universe had to do with that most of the credit went to Caitlin, seeing him, clearly.

.

 **fin**

.

.


End file.
